


Something Just Beneath

by yourcrookedheart



Series: Fanfiction Tropes [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: And all that entails, F/F, Pre-Slash, Scars, being a woman in the 18th century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 21:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14434809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourcrookedheart/pseuds/yourcrookedheart
Summary: Eleanor Guthrie seeks to understand an acquaintance of hers, and comes to Miranda for insight.Or: a rumination on scars.





	Something Just Beneath

**Author's Note:**

> Is this pairing a thing? I’m making it a thing. Set in some indeterminate space in time either before the show or during season one. 
> 
> This story is a part of a series of prompts I wrote, centered around fanfic tropes. The trope this was written for is ‘Scars’.
> 
> Title from the song Wild Once by Laura Marling.

It was June, and the sun draped itself over the land, chasing shadows away so that all was bared for the eye to see. Between the withering crops a dark cat wove its way, its matted fur dull in the bright light. It froze, beady eyes staring straight at Miranda where she stood on the porch surveying the plains. When she called it over, crouching and clicking her tongue, the animal fled back into the trees.

The sound of hooves reached her a mere few moments later, and she realized the cat must have been aware of the trespasser before she did. It was a tall horse, well taken care of, and Miranda was surprised to see its rider was none other than Eleanor Guthrie. She was more surprised when, instead of riding past with little more than a nod, Miss Guthrie halted the black stallion in front of the fence and dismounted, patting the horse’s flank and fastening its bridle to the wooden post.

“Mrs. Barlow,” she called out, smoothing down her skirts and striding over with no regards for the dusty soil beneath her feet. The brown cloth was flecked with mud at the hem.

Miranda straightened her spine. “Miss Guthrie. What brings you here?”

“I’d like to discuss a mutual acquaintance of ours.” Her accent reminded Miranda of crowded salons and ladies in a rainbow of dazzling dresses, but there was a smudge of sand on Miss Guthrie’s cheek that shattered the memory, and her gleaming blonde hair was in disarray. She climbed the steps to arrest in front of Miranda and remained there, unmoving as she waited for Miranda to invite her in.

There was little else to do but relent. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Miranda waited for her affirmation and then led them inside.

Miranda remembered the first time she’d seen Eleanor Guthrie, standing on the white Nassau beach bartering with a pirate who towered over her. She’d looked like a determined gust of wind could blow her away; a girl of no older than seventeen but with the poise of a grown woman, and Miranda had watched as the pirate grew loud, waving his arms at his crew and the ocean and puffing his chest. His fingers had crept towards the dagger at his belt. Then, as soon it had started, it was over. He’d deflated, accepted the pouch Miss Guthrie handed him and turned on his heels.

‘That Guthrie bitch’, the merchant who’d rowed Miranda and James to shore had called her, spitting out the words as if they were poisonous, and Miranda had understood why this girl had garnered the ire of the male population of the island. In civilized society women occupied a specific space in the social order, but in this lawless microcosm, Eleanor Guthrie had crashed through the principles set by men decades older than her. The closest thing Nassau had to a Queen, she had carved out a little piece of unequivocal power and had maintained it for years as the island molded around her.

And now she sat at Miranda’s table, cradling a cup in her delicate hands and looking small despite the shrewd look in her eyes.

“You’ve come to discuss James,” Miranda said, and Miss Guthrie leaned forward, resting her bare forearms on the table. Her hands were marred with scars, thin silver slivers that belied a life less sheltered than her accent would suggest.

“Captain Flint listens to no one. Except for you.”

“You must not know him very well if you believe that.” Miranda set down her cup. “Miss Guthrie, I don’t understand why you came.”

“Call me Eleanor, please. You’re right, I don’t know him. It’s why I wanted to see you, talk to you.”

“What binds James and I is not something that might simply be observed.”

Miss Guthrie’s - Eleanor’s - mouth twisted into a displeased moue before her face smoothed. Miranda was reminded of that day on the beach, Eleanor Guthrie squaring for a confrontation at the hand of which she’d rather perish than to yield. “Was Thomas Hamilton your husband?”

The force of Thomas’ name hit Miranda as fiercely as a blow to her face might have, and some of it must inevitably have shown on her face as Eleanor sat up straight. “That,” Miranda said decisively, “is none of your business.”

“You don’t want to know how I came to learn his name?”

“At this moment I don’t wish anything but for you to leave my home.”

Eleanor Guthrie’s intelligence network reached far beyond the bounds of New Providence Island. The position she occupied could only be sustained by continuous control over everyone else, and what she lacked in physical strength she made up for in information. Miranda knew this, and still she could not shake the thought of James telling this woman all of it. His life, and hers.

She gathered up the porcelain cups, carrying them to the kitchen. “Please, leave.”

A hand landed warm on her arm as Eleanor spun her around. They faced each other, warm light from the kitchen window reflecting off Eleanor’s golden hair. “I didn’t mean to offend. I only wish to understand.”

“How did you get these scars?” Miranda asked, motioning toward the hand resting on the mauve of her dress. Now that they had moved closer she could see the scars formed patterns, a cross-stitch of pale streaks across the knuckles and back of her hand.

Eleanor stepped back. “Once upon a time my father actually had the ambition to educate me.”

Despite Miranda’s attempts to ban any form of pity from her face, Eleanor’s brows drew together. It was an expression familiar from years of living with James and tended to signify simmering calm before a storm. “Now you know what it means for your private thoughts to be intruded upon,” Miranda said.

“You must have lived a comfortable life in England,” Eleanor retorted, the storm roiling beneath the surface.

“You were born into money as well, were you not? Then you know as well as I do that there is no escaping the supremacy of cruel men. Civilization finds its martyrs one way or another.” She clasped Eleanor’s hand between her own. It was calloused and ink-stained, while Miranda’s nails had gathered dirt from trying to salvage the shriveling crops all morning. Not the hands of ladies at all. “Not all scars are visible to the eye,” she said, and Eleanor’s hand jerked, moving as if to pull away yet remaining, a warm press of palm against palm.

“And your scars?”

“Are not to be bought in order to gain leverage over a man I care deeply about.”

Eleanor smiled in concession; a transaction completed. Miranda hadn’t noticed before, but Eleanor rose a few inches taller than her, as if the business of trade lent her some physical enhancement. At last she extracted her hand, nodded in lieu of a bow and headed towards to door. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Barlow.” Miranda could not discern whether the expression of gratitude was sincere.

In the open doorway she paused, and without turning around, said, “I have no intention of gaining leverage over Captain Flint, should you wish to warn him. Simply to understand him.” Her head turned to look at Miranda, blue eyes now a becalmed ocean. “We all carry invisible scars, as you said.”

“Then I believe you are asking the wrong person.”

Eleanor stepped out into the sun, the last image of her a wry smile as the door closed behind her. Through the window Miranda watched her mount her horse and urge it on towards the road, a Queen returning to her outlaw empire.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://queennsansa.tumblr.com/).


End file.
